


The Melody Lingers On

by Meldanya



Series: The Way You Changed My Life [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: After many days, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Book: Gaudy Night, Divorce, F/F, F/M, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Post-Season/Series 03, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6338797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meldanya/pseuds/Meldanya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Robinson sat in his office, contemplating his failed marriage. His second failed marriage. The glass on his door still read "Detective Inspector Fisher Robinson" which Jack hadn't bothered to replace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Way You Sip Your Tea

 

Jack Robinson sat in his office contemplating his failed marriage, looking at a newspaper and the bottom of a cup of tea.

The glass on his door still read "Detective Inspector Fisher Robinson" that he’d hadn't bothered to replace — he recalled how he and Phryne had toasted when the new glass had been installed. They had conjured that double-barreled name together on a moonlit terrace in Constantinople. She teased him about how the constabulary would react. He had retorted that it was all part and parcel with becoming a toff.

1929 was never far from Jack's thoughts. A different case with Miss Fisher almost every week. Non-stop flirtations over pianos, football matches, tennis games, bodies. Kissing at last in that airfield. Jack showing up in London in December in the pouring rain and Phryne running up the gangway to embrace him.

1930\. Scandalizing London with their affair. A high-society murder and partnering with Scotland Yard to solve the case. Laughing off the financial crash (the way they laughed off everything that year). Hopping in that plane to fly home together, leisurely seeing the cities of the world. Paris. Monaco. Venice. Athens. Constantinople. Baghdad. Delhi. Calcutta. Rangoon. Singapore.

It had been in Paris that he'd floated the question, "So, what happens when we get back to Melbourne?"

It had been in Venice that she'd suggested, "Why don't we just get married?"

Every leg of their journey, they'd sketched out plans and dreams. They’d reinvent marriage. They'd be equal partners, at home and at work. Spending their days together, full of cases and laughter. She didn't want him to change. He very much did not want to change her. 

She teased him about his old line — “A marriage is still a marriage, Miss Fisher” — his old stern stance that had crumbled in divorce courts with Rosie. “A marriage is whatever we want it to be, Inspector!” The idea of clinging to empty vows with her was laughable: it seemed impossible to ever stop loving Phryne, for their partnership to ever become stale.

They made promises never to change for each other. The marriage would provide the veneer of respectability they needed to live as they pleased without consequences. Separate finances. Separate properties, although they'd probably make their love nest at Wardlow. 

They talked about fidelity, frankly for once. She'd never really tried it, and wasn't particularly interested in trying it now. As he lay in a desert tent with Phryne in his arms, Jack's insecurities felt as though they'd never been. If he was honest, part of him had always been intrigued watching her flirtations; the idea of her having a few discreet dalliances tweaked a part of his brain he didn't know he had. As long as this magnificent woman came back home to him, whole, perfect, and wholly Phryne. 

They found a lawyer in Delhi to draw up legal documents.  They got married in Singapore, laughing through the vows.  They flew back to Melbourne, Mr. & Mrs. Fisher Robinson. 

* * *

The first few years had passed like a dream — Mrs. Stanley had been delighted, the Collinses had been astonished, and life together at Wardlow just came together. Jack rented out his flat, and moved all his books and belongings to Phryne's. Mr. Butler fitted out a study for him almost overnight. Melbourne high society ate him up: the man who had caught the scandalous Miss Fisher (being the disgraced Sidney Fletcher's ex-fiancee's ex-husband also added to the intrigue). They heard the whispers speculating on how long it would last; Jack and Phryne just laughed.

Phryne toned down her flirtations, but she did have a discreet apartment for her to entertain in every now and then. He'd spend those evenings tucked up with a cozy book in his study, secure knowing that she was coming home to him (and his daydreams became even more interesting). Every time she returned, she had a glint her eye like she was seeing him for the very first time. Their reunions after a night away were explosive. 

And the days they were together? Glorious. He found it ridiculous how much his heart raced when a murder was reported, knowing that it would bring Phryne into the station. Breakfasts together, pursuing leads all day, training rookie constables, long dinners and nightcaps discussing clues, tangling into bed together at the end of the night. The newspapers loved them: _ The Fisher Robinsons Always Get Their Man. _

When there wasn’t a case (but there almost always was a case), they’d spend evenings at home, with Mac and the Collinses as frequent guests. They’d drink whiskey (or cocoa) and play parlour games long into the night. He remember that Collins looked so startled in the beginning when he heard his old boss laugh. 

* * *

Then, slowly, life crept up. Her international investments took a severe hit with the worldwide depression, and Phryne was heavily committed to her patronages and causes. It hurt Jack how long Phryne had tried to hide her difficulties from him. He only found out when he caught her selling jewels and furs, the day after she had bought him an expensive new suit. He quietly put two and two together, and they adjusted to life on a smaller income.

Had they ever learned to talk about serious matters? Their banter, their lovely banter, was so fun when it came to solving crimes or dreaming of life together. It fell flat when they had to discuss real issues — it was far too easy for them to retreat to quips and kisses. 

Then societal pressures started to mount. Phryne became careless with her dalliances, and gossip started to swirl. Jack heard mutters at society gatherings and within the constabulary. He still loved her spirit, but the lack of discretion was disconcerting. His mother got wind of it -- she was still struggling to swallow Phryne in general, and the latest rumours froze things completely.

Family pressures got worse when her parents came back to Australia, with barely any money, looking to rebuild their lives. Her father's unpredictable presence caused constant strain on them both. The weight of things they weren’t discussing grew heavier. Jack started retreating to his study, Phryne to her social life.

And then a serial killer started killing young women, leaving no clues. Phryne joined him eagerly with the first few bodies, but they had nowhere to turn. There were no connections. No physical evidence.  Nothing but empty leads. By the third, Phryne was looking at him with haunted eyes. By the fourth, they were driving in utter silence to the morgue. By the fifth, she didn't show up at the crime scene. 

Things might had been fine if they had gotten more interesting murders. But all Jack got were just the usual open and shut cases. And the elusive serial killer. Six. Seven. Eight victims. Jack became obsessed, poring over every autopsy report over and over. Phryne just stopped.

What were they without their investigative partnership? Not much, apparently.

Jack would spend evenings alone in that study, reading the reports and his notes again, trying to make any connection, having conversations with Phryne alone in his head, and then lapsing into silence when she came home. Phryne threw herself into fundraising for her other causes, constantly pumping society connections to make sure that the futures of bright Melbourne women weren't squandered for lack of funds.

* * *

Then it all fell apart. 

He had been sipping his morning tea in Wardlow’s kitchen, feeling hollow after the events of the day before: yesterday had started by standing in an empty morgue, combing over the corpse of yet another mutilated woman, no clues, no leads, no Phryne. 

His father-in-law found him at the station in the afternoon, looking for police assistance with his latest dilemma, and Jack acquiesced. He'd never quite figured out how to stand up to Henry Fisher's charm when Phryne wasn't around. 

Jack had come home to an quiet house, Phryne clearly out on one of her adventures. He hadn’t seen her all day. 

Waking up to an empty bed did not improve his mood. 

Jack was contemplating his tea, when Phryne came tripping in, humming a little tune. Everything just suddenly stung too much: that she didn’t care about his cases anymore — the fact that she hadn't bothered to tell him that she'd be out that night or who with — the fact her father was a constant thorn in his side. He greeted his wife with a distant, annoyed face. 

It had started small, but then the fight had just boiled over. His frustrations. Her feeling stifled. The fight continued through the day, little bitter jabs over every possible hurt. Years of not communicating spilled out in an uncontrollable torrent. Every time she had hid evidence from him. Every time he hadn't trusted her. His old insecurities, his old feelings of inadequacy, still plaguing him from Rosie. Her old fear of constraint, fears of being buried in a sea of demands and responsibilities. 

With another woman, the fight might have been resolved with time. 

The next day, Phryne left for England. Jack didn't go to the airfield to see her off. 

Once again, she left her family as far behind as possible. Only this time, it included him. 

* * *

 

That had been well over two years ago. The serial killer slipped up and Jack caught him (eleven deaths, eleven families to notify). Phryne had sent him a telegram with her congratulations. Wardlow was shuttered. Mr. Butler had gone to work for Aunt Prudence. Jack moved all of his books back to his old bungalow. 

He still found himself talking to Phryne on crime scenes — asking her opinion, wondering what she would say. The empty responses haunted him. 

Fool that he was, he employed a clipping service to keep track of Phryne's news around the world. She was living in London, seemingly thriving. The Miss Fisher anyone-dead-yet luck persisted, as her name popped up in some articles about Scotland Yard murders. It was good to see that she was still investigating.

He hadn't needed to wait for the clipping service to send this latest article. He sighed and looked again: The Argus’s obituaries, Henry George Fisher, Baron of Richmond-upon-Thames, dead at 72.

Jack needed more tea.

He wandered out of his office, tea cup in hand, only to find a red-clad figure arguing with a fresh-faced constable like he’d stepped back 10 years. 

"Phryne?"

"Hullo, Jack."


	2. The Way You Wear Your Hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne Fisher Robinson is on a ship back to Australia, and is determinedly _not_ thinking about her failed marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phryne’s reading _Gaudy Night_ by Dorothy L. Sayers. It’s a mystery novel set in an Oxford Women’s College in 1935, where someone is writing poison pen letters against educated  & non-traditional women. The two main characters, Harriet Vane and Lord Peter Wimsey are considering marriage, and a central part of the novel is whether or not two intelligent people can marry without losing their independence. The book also focuses on women's education, and if it's possible to have a career while still maintaining a marriage. So late 1930s Phryne would definitely find it it interesting!
> 
> Jack and Phryne will be in the same room next chapter, I promise.
> 
> Also, the titles in this story are from "You Can't Take That Away From Me," and someone made a [lovely fanvid](https://youtu.be/ViBd5ClhQlo) of Jack & Phryne to that song.

A few days previously, Phryne Fisher Robinson lay on the _Ormonde_ ’s deck, determinedly not contemplating her failed marriage. She adjusted her sunhat, stretched out her legs, opened her book.

Only her aunt's ill health would drag her back to Australia. Especially being stuck with Guy and Isabella for an ocean voyage. Thankfully Guy and Izzy had toned down their Bright Young Thing routine somewhat (though not entirely, given the amount of attractive dining companions this trip). A small part of Phryne was annoyed by how Guy of all people had managed to make his marriage more successful than hers, but that would require her to think about Jack, and she wasn’t about to do that.

One more day, and they’d disembark in Adelaide. She’d be back in the same country as her father and her husband, a drunken gambler and an aloof detective inspector. She’d been fine halfway around the world from them. She had a busy, full life in London, with relatively few murder investigations (only one or two a year, practically nothing) and plenty of disposable male companionship.

* * *

Phryne tried focus on her book again — a nice detective puzzle was what she need to keep her mind occupied, and this was a new release from one of her favourite mystery writers. She was beginning to think it was a bad choice, though: it had no murders, but instead had seemingly endless musing on educated women and equality in marriage.

She gulped as one line jumped off the page at her: “ _A marriage of two independent and equally irritable intelligences seems to me reckless to the point of insanity. You can hurt one another so dreadfully,_ ” and Jack’s last words to her thundered through her head:

“ _You never stop to consider me, Phryne. You’re so focused on your own world, and convinced that your way is right, that you never consider me. I’m constantly standing at the door of your life, begging to be let in._ ”

She thought that they’d had an equal partnership; clearly, she’d been fooling herself. She’d walked off that boat in 1928, full of rage at Foyle and contempt for the incompetence of the Victorian constabulary and walked straight into Inspector Robinson, police officer. (She would _not_ allow herself to think of Jack the man). The officer that she delighted in impressing. Who always took every suggestion of hers seriously. How many murderers had they caught together?

Until that last one. Until she was stuck staring at corpses of young women, brutally murdered by a monster. Questioning bereaved family, friends, sweethearts. That impotent feeling of being unable to prevent another one. What had hurt the most, though, was Jack’s withdrawal. He stopped asking for her opinion, stopped offering his.

She remembered the especially awful day after the fourth victim. Henry Fisher had been at the station, trying to work some kind of angle with the well-connected grief-stricken father. He’d been exploiting Janey’s death for his own ends — and Phryne saw red. They had an massive row in the middle of the station. Phryne stormed off, and Jack didn’t follow. She never went back to City South after that.

The next time Jack got a call about a body, Phryne left for a hat appointment. When she came home later than night, they played draughts in silence. They never discussed a murder again.

* * *

There really was no point in rehashing this bitter ground, Phryne thought. Thank goodness Prudence was in Adelaide now, not Melbourne, so she could avoid her husband altogether. She turned back to her book.

“ _My marriage is a happy one as marriages go. But I often wonder if my husband wouldn’t have been better off with another kind of wife. He never says so, but I wonder._ ” This had definitely been a poor choice of book to read.

She had been so proud of their partnership — but maybe that’s not what Jack had been looking for. Maybe he wanted a wife — a real wife. Phryne knew that she would never marry again (marriage was clearly not for her), but Jack? Should she set him free? Give him a divorce while she was here? A nice warm woman who would would darn his socks while murmuring “yes dear, very true dear” to everything he said? A woman who would always be at home, waiting for him. Her stomach churned at the thought.

Let him marry again. She had had a side of Jack Robinson that no one else would ever have. That new wife would never get to survey a crime scene with him. Never get to exchange quips in a morgue. Never fly him up in a plane. Never fan dance for him in a bordello. Never see him kick down a door, or ride a motorcycle, or dress him as a Roman soldier. Those memories were all _hers_.

Phryne gave up; Jack was all she could think of. Jack crookedly wearing his new fedora. Jack tackling a criminal. Jack sneaking champagne. Jack reciting Shakespeare. Jack coming after her to London. Would she ever feel as happy as she was when he swept her into his arms on that London gangplank?

It had been in Paris that everything had changed for her. Laughing with Jack at her old haunts put Rene's ghost finally in the ground; Phryne felt like she could trust again. Jack asked her what would happen back in Melbourne, and all she knew is that she didn’t want to lose him: he was her partner, her favourite person — she didn’t want to be without him and she wanted the whole world to know how much she loved him.

She’d tried her best to let the whole world know, too. Stopping at the glorious old cities of Europe and Asia on the way home, Jack got to see a world that he’d only read about, Phryne brimming with delight at being the one to show him.

Coming back home to Wardlow. Waking up every morning together. Phryne spent so much of that first year just reading, trying to keep up with his quotations and knowledge. He’d accompany her to jazz clubs, she’d work in Wardlow’s gardens with him (or they’d split up just to be able to miss each other). When had things started to slide? When had she stopped sharing? When had he stopped laughing?

Her head was full of him, She missed his smile. She missed the feel of his arms. She missed the sound of his voice, his dry wit and the way his laugh made her skip. How had things gone so wrong? What was he doing now? Did he ever think of her?

* * *

The next day, Phryne and Guy disembarked in Adelaide, and were greeted by a tearful Margaret Fisher. Phryne had a rush of fear — had something happened to Prudence?

“Oh, Phryne, it’s your father!”

It looked like she’d be going back to Melbourne after all.


	3. We May Never Ever Meet Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne’s back in Melbourne, and her father’s died in suspicious circumstances. Phryne and Jack see each other again, and see some old friends as well.

_“What do you mean, suspicious death!” an agitated Lady Fisher demanded._

Mac wished anyone else was delivering this news: Margaret Fisher was weeping, Phryne was pacing, and Prudence was bustling making funeral arrangements while simultaneously comforting her sister. (Really, she looked remarkably well for a women who had been reportedly on her deathbed in an Adelaide sanatorium; reports of Henry Fisher’s death had clearly done her wonders).

“I’m not entirely sure, Lady Fisher — my colleague was the one who signed his death certificate, and he noticed a few odd anomalies. All I know is that he’s reported it as suspicious to the police, and they’re conducting a full autopsy. I’m sure that they’ll be here to talk to you soon, since you’re back in town,” Mac said evenly.

Phryne started firing a series of panicked questions: “Police! When’s the autopsy? Do you know where he died? Was he alone? Who saw him last? Do — do you know who’s conducting the investigation?” _Another family member murdered_.

“I don’t know, I don’t know anything more than what I’ve just told you.” Mac tried for warm and comforting.

Phryne couldn’t sit here in Prudence’s house and wait for a random police officer to bungle her father’s murder investigation, just like they did with Janey’s, “I have to know everything, Mac.” _Two hours back in Melbourne, and she was already running straight to Jack Robinson._

“Phryne, you’re family. They’re going to be looking to rule you out as a suspect, not give you access to the crime scene. They’re not going to let family members,” Mac paused for a moment, “ _any_ kind of family member in on this investigation.”

Mac watched her best friend frantically circling the room, knowing that she would go for drastic measures if no one helped her, “I can’t do much, but I’ll try to get a copy of the autopsy report for you. Come by my place later today.”

* * *

After Mac left, Phryne weighed her options. Three years ago, she (with Jack alongside her) would have had the influence to be able to take over any investigation, even if it had been her father’s. She certainly didn’t have that ability now. She could storm the police investigation solo, like her first days in Melbourne, trying to sneak onto the crime scene, deal with surly officers, and trespass charges, or . . . or she could go to Jack and ask for his help. She needed every possible resource right now, and he was her best one.

She felt uncharacteristically nervous. She needed the police access, (and if she was going to be honest, she needed _Jack_ ), but she wasn’t sure if he would help her. Who knew what Jack would think these days? Who knew who was keeping him company these days?

His angry voice from their last fight echoed: _"You take me for granted, Phryne! We’re supposed to work together, but you’ve always expected me just to follow and waltz to your tune!_ ”

She had to at least try and see if he would be willing to help.

* * *

It seemed almost unbearable how little City South had changed in a decade. The chipped paint. The fresh-faced constable behind the desk. Jack hadn't even bothered to change her name on his glass. Only the portrait of the king was different. 

“Excuse me, is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson in?” She said sweetly to the desk constable, feeling tempted to just start screaming “Jackie!” at the top of her lungs like Elsie would.

“Um, d-d-do you have an appointment? May I have your name?” He looked twelve; he must irritate Jack to no end.

“No, but can you tell him that — ”

And then she was interrupted by that unforgettable voice, “Phryne?”

“Hullo, Jack!” She turned to greet her husband.

* * *

Jack had thought of Phryne as a world away in England, and here she was standing in his station (he cursed that clipping service for clearly doing a poor job). Given the determined, slightly frantic, expression on her face, she was here because of her father's murder. He knew that probably nothing short of a family murder would drag her back to City South (he shoved down any wistful fantasies of Phryne tripping back into his office saying, _"Jack, dearest, I've missed you, I've come home to you"_ )

He felt the other police officers staring as he stood gaping at his wife, so he quickly retreated to formalities. “How can I help you today, Miss . . .” He almost said ‘Miss Fisher,’ which he hadn’t called her since, well, before England. Phryne arched an eyebrow — she was waiting for him to finish, waiting for him to stumble, but he’d gone too far. He just wordlessly gestured her into his office, and glared at the other officers to scatter.

She took a seat, and he excused himself to the interrogation room to catch a couple of deep breaths. What was she _doing_ back in Melbourne already?

Their last argument rose up like bile in his throat — he heard Phryne’s cutting voice, _“Do you expect me just to sit around waiting at home for you every night? Knitting scarves? Or do you just want me to be your little sidekick on investigations, as you get all the recognition and glory?”_

It had always been unbelievable that she would love a man like him; he almost hadn’t been surprised when she left. He assumed that he would never see her again, and now here she was sitting at his desk again, like she had never left. _Formalities, Robinson, focus on formalities_ , Jack composed himself and headed back to his office.

He tried to not think about how beautiful she was (he’d almost forgotten), how much her new longer hair suited her, how well she always looked in red, how soft her skin was. He just sat, and ran his fingers across the desk, waiting for her to begin.

“Jack, it’s father.”

He listened as Phryne relayed everything that she knew in a quiet, but seething voice (which wasn’t much). Jack knew a bit more than Phryne did, and he wasn't surprised by her next question, “I need to find whoever did this to him … and, Jack, I want your help.”

In the back of his brain, Jack was amused by their changed roles ( _“do you want me to beg?”_ ), but the pain in her eyes was unmistakable. She was back, and she was asking for his help. For access to an investigation, which maybe had been all she had ever seen in him. He swallowed — the very least he could do would be to help her with this. Help her in the only way he could still matter to her.

“Phryne …” saying her name again sounded foreign on this tongue. “Phryne, I’m not the officer on this case — with our, um, connection, um, Russell Street isn’t going to let me involved. I’ve already had the investigating officer interview me about, um, your father.” He recognized that that stubborn tilt of Phryne’s head all too well; she was investigating no matter what.

“But …” and he cursed himself for his weakness, his inability to ever say no to her, “We can go, and we can go and find out what we can.” Her face brightened. “It’s a good officer on the job, P,” (using an old nickname was even worse), “he’ll get justice for you and your family.”

* * *

Phryne found herself struggling with any type of conversation as they drove to Mac’s place for the autopsy report — Jack was driving in silence, unresponsive to all of the tentative chit chat she offered. Maybe getting Jack’s help for this was a bad idea — she wasn’t sure how much she could handle this eerily quiet, taciturn Inspector.

“Do you need Mac’s new address?” Phryne inquired, “She’s moved from her old flat, last time I checked although I can’t think why — she loved that building” Phryne was rambling now, she had to get a grip. This was just like any other investigation, she told herself.

Jack just said softly, “No thank you, I know the way.”

Phryne hadn’t expected that — Mac was her best friend, not his. She’d never mentioned Jack in any of her letters, and the thought of the two of them, bonding over nightcaps here in Melbourne without her was unsettling. Would he have ever said anything to Mac about her?

Mac’s new place was also unexpected — there was a lovingly maintained garden out front, and the sitting room  had embroidered pillows on the chairs and fresh flowers in vases. As Mac was digging up her copy of the coroner’s report, Phryne snooped around — Mac had been keeping very quiet about this new love interest.

“Jack, is that you? It’s awfully earlier to call -- is something wrong?” a poised voice came from the hall and an elegant Rosie Sanderson walked into the room. She saw Phryne and froze.

Rosie was staring at Phryne. Jack was staring out the window. Mac was staring at the ceiling.

Phryne quickly regained her composure, Mac and Rosie being together was a fascinating, but good, surprise, “Rosie, it’s so lovely to see you again!”

Phryne moved forward to give Rosie a kiss and hug, only to be stopped by Rosie extending a cold handshake. “Phryne. What a surprise — I, I hadn’t heard that you were back in town,” as she darted a glance to Jack and Mac, who were both finding their shoes incredibly interesting.

“Can I speak to you for a moment, Jack?” Rosie firmly escorted him out of the room.

Phryne could hear them having a heated discussion in low whispers. Rosie’s cold greeting stung — but then Phryne recalled uncomfortably that she hadn’t said goodbye to Rosie when she left, or written to her from London.

Phryne arched her eyebrow at Mac, and Mac said gruffly, toeing the ground, “She’s still really ridiculously protective of him. Thinks he can’t look out for himself. Waste of energy, I say.”

As Jack and Rosie came back in, Rosie looked unhappy, Jack looked harried.

Before things got any worse, Phryne decided that it was time to make her exit — “Well, it has been lovely seeing you again, Rosie. Mac, thank you for the information.” Her voice felt unusually high pitched, “but we shouldn’t take up any more of your time. Jack?”

She overheard Rosie mutter, “Please, just be careful,” to Jack as she helped him on with his coat.

Jack and Phryne walked back to the car in silence. “So, to the crime scene?” asked Phryne.

“To the crime scene,” said Jack grimly. He didn’t think Phryne was going to like her reception there much more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's taken sides about this breakup. What else has changed since Phryne's been gone?


	4. On the Bumpy Road to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Phryne work together on the case and it's not going well. More of their friends share their opinions on the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Low point of the angst: it gets better from here!

Back in the car, Phryne started running through the autopsy report in her head. Her father had been poisoned, but the coroner wasn’t sure by what or how. He was running tests for arsenic, but there was some small detail that was bothering Phryne. She turned to Jack to voice her questions, but instead found herself asking, “What did Rosie have to say to you?”

Jack drove another block or two before answering, “She thought I was getting in over my head, working a case with you.” _Oh._

* * *

They were arguing with the constable outside her father’s flat when the door flew open. Detective Hugh Collins stood there, looking distinctly unimpressed at the couple in front of him. “Jack! And … Mrs.— Miss — Mrs. Fisher ... Robinson? We … were understood that you were, that you were still in England. I'm ... I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Jack saw Phryne turning on the charm that would have worked wonders with Collins a decade ago — probably not so much now. “Thank you, dear Hugh — we arrived in Melbourne only this morning, and we’re so eager for a quick resolution to this case.” Phryne started to try and push her way past him into the flat.

Collins’ eyes darted from Phryne to Jack, and back again, trying to make sense of the situation. He stopped Phryne from entering. “I’m sure you are, but as the investigation is still in process. I’m afraid we can’t let you in on the scene.”

Phryne was starting to bluster her way through when Collins interrupted. “Jack — could I speak to you for a moment?”

He pulled Jack aside. “Jack, what are you two doing here? You can’t be here. She can’t be here.” Jack opened his mouth to rebut, and Collins stopped him. “Yes, I know, it’s Miss Fisher. But, her mother’s a suspect. Her aunt’s a suspect. You’re practically a suspect.” Jack knew this — he knew that every piece of evidence they touched would be tainted. _What had he been thinking, bringing her here?_

Collins eyed his former boss with respect and warmth. “Look…” he lowered his voice, “if I can rule out all family members unequivocally, I’ll let you know more details. Until then, I really need you to stay away.”

Jack nodded, feeling a twinge of humiliation for having even tried to come to the crime scene. First a lecture from Rosie, now one from Collins. Phryne had only been back in the city for less than six hours. And all this for a cad like Henry Fisher.

* * *

In the car again, Phryne started asking, “So, where to next?”

“That’s it — that’s all the information we can give you. I’ll take you back to your car.” Jack’s voice was clipped and short.

“Really, Jack, are you going to let Hugh Collins boss you around like that? I remember when you swooped in and took over the Sanderson and Lola case without a second thought.” The challenging tone of her voice was unbearable.

Jack closed his eyes — that had been a dubious step then, and this was much worse. “Collins is doing the right thing. And you know he’ll do a good job on the investigation. He doesn’t need us to step in."

“My father is dead, Jack, what am I supposed to do!? He died alone and friendless, and now I have to wait for Hugh Collins decide if I can have information about his death?”

“Maybe your father wouldn’t have died alone with dozens of people wanting him dead if he had made better choices in his life,” Jack regretted the harsh words the instant they were out of his mouth.

Phryne drew back, stricken, “Oh, I’m sorry if you don’t approve of my father’s choices, Jack. My murdered father. Who now has every chance of getting about as much justice from the Victorian Constabulary as his youngest daughter did. Our family knows all too well how much your lot likes shortcuts and easy solutions.” 

That rebuke stung Jack to anger. “Phryne, even if we did let you in, you would immediately compromise the entire investigation with inappropriate behaviour! You would find evidence through illegal searches! You would hide and withhold key information for no apparent reason! You’d bed half the witnesses and then expect to question them the next day!” That last habit had been a particularly irritating one. “Hugh knows your methods. I know your methods. You can’t use them this time, not on this case.”

Phryne looked evenly at Jack. The car was stopped. She opened the door and left. Jack let her.

* * *

Phryne was barreling through the streets in the car she’d pilfered from Aunt Prudence, fuming about the audacity of Jack Robinson and Hugh Collins. How _dare_ Collins not let her on the crime scene, after she’d proven her worth for a decade? After all she’d done for his career? And how _dare_ Jack Robinson imply that her father was responsible for his own death? How _dare_ he question her methods? How _dare_ he say that she was anything less than the best investigator this country had ever seen? How many murderers had she locked away? How many times had she done their jobs for them?

Fortunately, she had her ways around them.

She pulled up at a familiar house and knocked, only to be welcome with an enthusiastic hug and a cry, “Phryne! You’re home!!” Dottie Collins was just the person she needed right now.

* * *

  
Jack spent the rest of the day slogging through paperwork, and came to the end of it far too early. Henry Fisher just had to be murdered on a slow crime week — Jack poured himself a drink and knocked it back, determinedly not thinking about Phryne. He looked back to his empty desk — he refused to sit here  by himself. He’d go to Rosie and apologize for earlier, tell her that she had been right. A comfortable night with Mac and Rosie in their cozy parlour was just what he needed.

He found only Mac at home, as Rosie was out. Mac poured Jack a drink, and they started a light chat. For years, they had had a very strict, unspoken agreement to never discuss Phryne (he still privately felt that Mac believed that he wasn’t good enough for her friend). Jack was thankful for that agreement today.

Mac was unusually antsy though: Jack watched as she gulped her drink, and paced from the piano to the mantelpiece, and back again. She poured another one, tossed it back, and flung herself into a chair.

“Look, Robinson.” Jack felt a twinge of panic at her ominous tone. “I like you, I always have. You’re a good man.” She got up and paced back to the bar table. “But you’re a damn stupid one. I said nothing, when you started freezing her out of crime scenes. I said nothing, when that ridiculous family of hers made her life miserable, and you blamed her for it.” Another drink downed. “I said nothing when that icebox of a mother of yours treated her like garbage. But, clearly, maybe I should have.”

Jack started to open his mouth to defend himself, and then quickly realized it was a bad idea, and Mac had no intention of stopping, “You’re pulling the same type of cowardly nonsense with your second marriage that you did with your first, and if you had a modicum of the intelligence you’re reputed to have, you’d see that.”  
  
“Dr. MacMillan —” Jack had no idea where to start, listening to how much his favourite drinking partner apparently felt about him, “Mac. You need to understand — it’s, it’s not the same. It’s not the same as Rosie. Phryne just left. There was nothing I could do”

Mac grimaced. “Inspector, I’ve seen how you’ve hurt the two women I love most in the world. I’ve seen why they both left. Don’t give me any excuses.”

Jack buried his head in his hands; Mac was articulating everything he’d thought about himself for years. She groaned, and poured him another drink. “Look, here, have this.” He downed it gratefully. “Look ... you, you are still one of the finest men Melbourne has.” _Not that it was much of a competition._ “And, for whatever reason, you still have the love of two incredible women.” Did Mac really think Phryne still loved him? Even after all this?

“Her father was murdered yesterday. She needs you. Don’t let her down again.”

* * *

Phryne had just finished up her plans for midnight with a certain cabbie — _“Police aren’t letting me in.” “Figures. Go around ‘em?” “Go around them!”_ — and was mulling over the contradictions in the coroner’s report again; she had to run the questions by Mac. As she exited her car, she saw Rosie heading up the garden walk.

Rosie started, “Phryne.” “Rosie. I’m here to see Mac.” The two women paused in awkward silence. (Honestly, Phryne was happy for Mac but she would be happy to not have to deal with a hostile lover when she had autopsy questions).

Rosie nodded. “Of course.” She turned to let Phryne into the house. “Wait, Phryne — can I have a word? I was … I was unpardonably rude this morning. I owe you an apology.”

Phryne plastered a bright smile on her face. “That’s not necessary.”

Rosie paused, and seemed to struggle. “Well, no, I feel that it is. Yours and Jack’s relationship is really not my concern. I just … I … I don’t think you realize how hard it’s been to watch him the past few years. He’s … he’s not been the same since you left.”

Phryne didn’t know what to say — the last thing she wanted to be doing was to be discussing the failure of her marriage with the woman who had also failed with the same man, “Rosie, I’m sure —”

“Just, he spends most of his evenings here with us — and he never talks about you, but I know that he hasn’t stopped thinking about you. And it’s hard — watching him not move on, especially as he had been so happy with you after the mess with me. Just … please, I don’t want to see him hurt again.” Phryne’s heart began to beat faster: she had never considered Jack pining for her — she felt that he would have moved on long ago, to a nice normal woman, as soon as he was able. The thought of him spending evening after evening with Mac and Rosie made her happier than it ought.

“Anyway, I’ve said more than I should,” Rosie was still talking. “Let’s go in?”

As Rosie and Phryne went into the house, they acted as if it were perfectly normal that Jack was already there with Mac, both clearly a few drinks in. Phryne ignored her fight with Jack and immediately launched into her questions about the autopsy report, and Jack, Phryne and Mac spent a good hour hashing over poisoning methods. Rosie watched them from the corner, and wondered how often they had done this in the old days — Mac and Jack often compared theories, but there was something about the pace and energy that Phryne brought to the discussion that changed the dynamic entirely.

Phryne got up to leave. “I’ll — I’ll see you at City South tomorrow, Phryne? And we’ll see what we can do.” Jack briefly touched her arm, and they both took a small step back, as if jolted. Their eyes met, and they thought about the last time they had touched each other, so many months ago. _He'd kissed her goodbye on the way out the door, just like they'd do it every day forever._

* * *

After Jack left, Mac felt Rosie’s arms wrap around her waist, as she stood going over the autopsy reports. “Mmmmmmm?” She inclined slightly to give Rosie’s hair a kiss.

Rosie sighed. “It’s heartbreaking, really. 25 years, and he still hasn’t figured out how to tell someone how much he loves them. I … I can’t stand to see him making all the same mistakes all over again that he did with me.”

Mac exhaled, “Lady, you can’t save him. You can’t fix him. He’s a big boy — he needs to pull up his own pants.” Mac decided to omit the discussion she’d had with Jack earlier; Rosie didn’t need to know. She leaned over to kiss her lover’s forehead, “After all, _you_ managed to learn how to talk about your feelings quite late in life.”

Rosie leaned into Mac’s embrace a bit more, and chuckled softly. “I did have some help with that,” she murmured. It was hard to believe that she could be this happy — after all of her disastrous men.

Mac swept Rosie into a deep kiss, thinking of how lovely the past few years had been, “Let Phryne and Jack sort it out for themselves now.”


	5. The Way You Changed My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's determined to talk to Phryne; Phryne wants to solve her father's case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that they're listening to is Irving Berlin's [The Song Is Ended (but the Melody Lingers On)](https://youtu.be/4CyIxitYxtU)

Jack stood in his kitchen, contemplating another drink, but his head was already spinning from the all the ones he’d had at Mac’s. The whole day — Henry’s murder, Phryne’s return, Rosie’s concern, his own resentment, Mac’s anger — was swirling through his brain. Cocoa. Cocoa would help him think clearly.

“ _You still have the love of two incredible women”_ rang through his head as he stirred. He knew exactly where he stood with Rosie these days — but other one? Did Mac believe that Phryne still loved him? He’d barely heard from her in two years (yet he had still found himself electrified by her touch today).

He groaned recalling their fight earlier that day: How had he accused her of being a poor investigator? Why had he gone for the cheapest possible insults? Phryne was finally back in Melbourne, and he was wasting his time with her in petty quarrels.

He had to talk to her like an adult: apologize for today, and get a resolution one way or the other. Either they could reconcile … or divorce. _Second time in the divorce courts, Robinson, making a case for desertion again._ He leaned against the counter: Dammit, maybe Mac had been right — maybe he _was_ the reason that both Rosie and Phryne had left. Had he been too distant with her? Too willing to give up?

Tomorrow, he’d talk to Phryne. He started planning a careful, formal speech in his head: he didn’t want to blurt out a rash declaration of love, begging her to come back to him like a lovesick boy. He needed to be calm and reasonable.

* * *

Phryne cursed Hugh Collins’ competence under her breath as she tried to break into her father’s flat. When had he learned to post guards overnight on crime scenes? (She didn’t think about the fact that she hadn’t had to break into a crime scene in close to a decade). Bert’s voice was in the background, distracting the constable; she had limited time. The tumblers clicked, and she slipped in with a sigh of relief.

Very quietly, she started to conduct a search. This was a different place than where her parents had been two years ago — and by the looks of things, her mother had never lived in this one. They had certainly kept this separation very quiet.

Phryne start going through her father’s papers, finding piles of unpaid bills, angry letters, gambling IOUs. _What a waste_ , she thought bitterly of 1929 when she had flown her father back to England, giving him the opportunity to fix his life and his marriage. She’d left her life to fly him across the globe, and he’d thrown away all of his chances (she couldn’t quite regret that trip — not when she thought about her trip home).

Her father had had the love of a wonderful woman, and chose to throw it all away. (Phryne chose to ignore the voice in the back of her head, telling her _“isn’t that exactly what you did?”_ ). He’d loved her mother, but not enough, not enough to stop lying to her.

Clearly, love wasn’t enough to make a marriage work. She thought of today and Jack’s angry words, Rosie’s frigid hostility: Jack telling her that she wasn’t a good enough investigator, Rosie implying that she was bad for Jack. Yet, he’d agreed to help her. And for a brief moment, when he touched her in Mac’s hallway, she remembered what it was like to have his secure presence always on her side, and what it was like to want him there.  
  
Phryne found all that she could in her father’s papers, pursed her lips at the contents, and snuck out the window to Bert waiting below.

* * *

Jack found himself feeling quite rough as he dragged himself into the station this morning — he’d see Phryne today, talk to her, and then move on from this case — it’s not as if he could investigate with Hugh around. He remembered that still had to call Hugh and tell him about his autopsy suspicions.

“Hello, Collins Residence, this is Dorothy speaking.”

“Hi, Dot, it’s Jack — is Hugh still home?”

“Oh, Jack! How are you? Oh, no … I’m afraid that Hugh’s not in. He’s left for Geelong for the day.”

That was odd. “Geelong?”

“Oh, yes, we were reviewing the evidence on the poor Baron’s murder last night, and we felt that one of his associates needed to be urgently questioned, and he’s all the way out in Geelong.”

Well, it was clear that Phryne had gotten to Dot. “He’ll be back home in time for dinner. In fact, I’m sure the two of you will have lots to talk about, why don’t you come around for dinner tonight?”

Jack couldn’t think of a reason to say no. So, Hugh was out of the city for the day; they still shouldn’t investigate … but Mac’s voice echoed to Jack: _She needs you. Don’t let her down again._

Jack took a sip of tea, and then picked up the phone again, “Hello, please connect me to Mrs. Edward Stanley’s residence.” He needed to talk to her sooner than later.

* * *

Phryne was trying to catch up with sleep after last night’s late escapades (and indeed, the whole dreadful previous 48 hours), when she was woken by a familiar voice.

“Good morning, ma’am. Here’s your morning tea,” Her head was fuzzy as she tried to determine why Mr. B was here. “Also, the inspector’s called for you, ma’am, and he’d like to see you down at the station when convenient.” Was she hallucinating — Jack asking for her? That was just wishful think— _oh_. She clued in where she was. Aunt P’s. Mr. Butler worked for her. Father was dead. She’d seen Jack yesterday. “Thank you, Mr. B. Lovely to see you again.”

She dressed as quickly as possible, ignoring the flutter of excitement she felt over Jack calling for her.

* * *

Phryne waltzed into the station, beautifully dressed, but Jack could still catch tell-tale signs of exhaustion on her face. Midnight break-ins, most likely. He offered her a cup of tea, which she sensibly refused. He thought to start on his planned conversation ( _Phryne, we should discuss our future_ ) but instead found himself asking “Find any useful information last night?”

Phryne brightened, and immediately started laying out the evidence that she found at her father’s flat. Lists of IOUs from gambling partners, and more tellingly, a love letter from a woman named “Helen Fielding” addressed to Henry. With Hugh gone for the day, there was a lot of ground they could cover.

They started tracking down Henry’s gambling buddies, Phryne introducing herself as a bereaved daughter who just wanted more information. The morning proved fruitless, but in the afternoon, they finally tracked down Mrs. Fielding.

Mrs. Fielding had been in her garden, and had been evasive about their questions. Said she knew Henry only in passing, denied the existence of the letter. Her husband showed up, looming, and very firmly suggested that they leave.

Jack tilted his head and escorted Phryne out. “Well, that was suspicious,” she started.

Jack agreed. “I think we’ll need to get Hugh to question them formally.” He still hadn’t had a chance to talk to her, and he didn’t want the day to end, “Would you like me to join me for dinner at their place tonight?” He hoped Dot wouldn’t mind the extra guest.

* * *

Dot most definitely did not mind, and they settled into the surreal experience of dining with Hugh and Dottie, as if nothing had ever changed. Hugh was determinedly not discussing the case at all, but somehow, with Dottie’s leading the conversation, an awful lot of information still came to light. Hugh revealed how fruitless Geeling had been. Phryne talked about the Fieldings. Jack ended up talking about the autopsy contradictions.

Dinner was over far too quickly it seem, and he was standing outside with Phryne, who was asking him, “Would you like a lift home, rather than waiting for the tram?” His carefully prepared speech still needed to be said — the drive home would be perfect timing.

In the car, he started and stumbled over the words he’d picked out last night, and kept returning to innocuous topics, like the Collins children's piano lessons. They arrived back at his bungalow much too quickly. _Now’s the time, Robinson._ “Would you … would you like to come in for a nightcap?”

* * *

Phryne paused to consider her options. Head back to Aunt Prudence’s? Deal with her mother, Prudence, Guy, Isabella? Or head into Jack’s — have some whisky, his comforting company. Jack's was much more appealing.

She had barely ever seen this bungalow in the old days. She felt a pang as she entered the parlour, seeing all of the old household effects from their old life — the books that had been in his study, his old trophies that had been on their sidebar, the whisky decanter than had been an anniversary present. The neat, tidy space shouted Jack Robinson. His Sydney Long painting was hanging on the wall — she had bought it for his birthday (for far more than she should have spent at that time), he’d said that the birds reminded him of her.

Jack had poured out the drinks, and put the phonograph (her old player, she noted). He turned and handed her her drink: his fingers brushed against hers. She shivered, remembering what his hands could do. Her voice grew woolly, “erm, lovely place you’ve got here, Jack.”

“Hmm,” was his response, as he leaned against the mantel. Phryne inhaled sharply.

“To days gone by,” Jack toasted.

_My thoughts go back to a heavenly dance_  
_A moment of bliss we spent_  
_Our hearts were filled with a song of romance_  
_As into the night we went_  
_And sang to our hearts' content_

_I should have chosen a different record_ , Jack thought. He thought an old sentimental song would set the mood for the conversation, but it was a terrible choice.

He looked at Phryne, shimmering in the firelight, and realized that he had no desire to say his careful speech at all, and raise the option of divorce. He didn’t know _what_ he wanted to say to her.

“And the memories they bring,” she toasted back and his insides twisted. His speech gone, all he could think about was the curve of her neck, and the way her eyes would flashed with laughter. Her vital presence was utterly unchanged in the decade past: all he wanted was here.

_The song is ended_  
_But the melody lingers on_  
_You and the song are gone_  
_But the melody lingers on_

Phryne let her fingers graze Jack’s again as they clinked glasses, not dropping eye contact with him. Had his eyes always been that blue? He was Jack — her steadying force, her right-hand man — and he was still here, still free. Still steady in a world full of murder and bereavement.

_The night was splendid_  
_And the melody seemed to say_  
_"summer will pass away_  
_Take your happiness while you may"_

Jack opened his mouth to say something, anything. _Phryne, I’m sorry, Phryne, I miss you, Phryne come home._ And nothing came out. She was so close, standing by his mantelpiece like she belonged here. He remembered what it had been like to kiss her gladly and freely, like he had on that terrace in Venice, dancing to this very song, swirling and kissing between champagne toasts.

He put down his drink, and started stroking her hand. She didn’t pull her hands away, and took a step closer. Her face looked so soft, so vulnerable — he bent and gently kissed her. _Please come home._

_There 'neath the light of the moon_  
_We sang a love song that ended too soon_

Jack's lips felt so familiar, so comforting. She pulled back for a second and paused — she hadn’t expected him to still be waiting for her here, wanting her — did she want to get drawn back in? Deal with her own failure to meet his expectations again?

And then his eyes darkened, and he pulled her slightly closer. It had been a long day, and dammit, she just wanted him. She wrapped her arms around her neck and pulled him in for a deeper kiss.

* * *

_This is not the adult conversation you need, Robinson_ , but Jack dismissed the voice in head as he tightened his grip on Phryne’s waist and kissed her more intensely, savouring her familiar taste.

He pulled back for breath, running his hands up and down her sides. She was trembling. “Phryne?” he whispered. _We should stop, we should talk._ “Do remember the Savoy?” _Not the right kind of talk._

The Savoy in London where they’d had their first time: they’d barely made it to their room after the gangplank embrace, their hat and coats had been abandoned in the hallway.

Phryne’s eyes glinted, and she pulled him in for another searing kiss, “I’d never forget, inspector.” _Let’s make it the bedroom now._

* * *

It escalated so quickly. Falling onto his bed — holding each other kissing, gently laughing. Fumbling with clothes, stripping them off. The way he looked as he entered her, the way he felt inside of her.

It seemed so right to hold him in her arms again: Phryne clutched tightly to Jack, as he thrust into her, deeply, slowly, intensely. She murmured his name, “Jack, Jack, Jack, my Jack” with every thrust. Trying to hard to taste him, to feel the salty tang of his skin, to be kissing, licking, holding, and looking at him all at the same time, as much as she possibly could. He knew just how to touch her, just how to work things — she sailed over the edge moaning his name.

* * *

Jack collapsed beside Phryne afterwards, panting. He … he should say something. Holding her was suddenly too intimate — he recalled his speech, completely gone.

“Jaaack…?” her voice came softly from beside him. He had to say _something_.

“Why did you leave, Phryne? Why’d you just leave like that?” _Dammit, Robinson._


	6. They Can't Take That Away From Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry's murder is solved. Talking happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I have had to pull down brick by brick, the barriers I had built up by my own selfishness and folly. If, in all these years, I have managed to get back to the point at which I ought to have started, will you tell me so and give me leave to begin again?" - _Gaudy Night_ , by Dorothy L. Sayers

_“Why’d you leave, Phryne?”_

She didn’t have an answer. Why _had_ she left? She remembered the bitter accusations, the fight. She hadn’t wanted to stay for more  — fleeing had felt like the only possibility.

Jack had gotten up from the bed, and was putting on a dressing gown. He sat down next to her again, not making eye contact, “Why … why did you just leave?”

“I … I … well,” for once in her life, Phryne was at a loss for words. She started to get dressed, trying to decide what to say. Jack sat on the bed, studying the quilt’s pattern closely.

Dressed, ready to go, Phryne turned back once to glance at Jack, and then headed for the door. Addressing the doorknob, she stuttered, “You … you were my home, you were my family and I had … I had lost you. I couldn’t face living here without you.” With that, she was gone.

* * *

Jack held onto Phryne’s parting words as he got ready for bed, feeling a jolt of hope amid the regret. She had still loved him when she left. Did she love him still? He smoothed out the sheets that now smelt like her — he wanted his wife back; he wanted her to _want_ to come back. He lay awake in bed for hours, giving way to wild visions of possible futures. 

Jack was still lost in thought when he went into City South in the morning, thinking about what he should say to Phryne, flitting between wistful daydreams and nauseating anxiety.

Mrs. Fielding was sitting in his office, weeping. He darted an angry look at his constable for not warning him, and then sat down at his desk.

“Mrs. Fielding? How … how can I help you?”

She was dabbing at her eyes with her hankie. “Inspector. You … you came to see me yesterday with … with Henry’s daughter. I … I need to talk to her now and I don’t know how to reach her. Please, please can you take me to her?”

 _Well, this was convenient._ He wasn’t about to take a distraught Mrs. Fielding to Prudence Stanley’s house, so he had the constable set her up in the interview room with tea and biscuits, while Jack left messages for Phryne and Hugh.

* * *

“I loved him so much, you know,” Mrs. Fielding was sobbing to Phryne. (Jack was a little astonished how quickly she’d made it into City South -- still no sign of Hugh)

Mrs. Fielding’s whole story came out — her husband was cold and distant, and she had fallen madly in love with Henry (Jack had to marvel, for the last time, at Henry Fisher’s ability to charm). She thought her husband didn’t know, but he had been acting suspicious ever since yesterday, and she had found him burying a jar of poison in the back garden today. She was sobbing, “What … what if my man killed Henry? I’m … I think that he did!!”

Phryne and Jack’s eye met. They had to get to Mr. Fielding before any further evidence was destroyed. Phryne started to make a bolt for the door, with Jack close behind her.

“Constable, get a message to Inspector Collins and have him meet us at the Fielding residence!”

* * *

Phryne drove frantically to the Fielding’s place, Jack beside her looking green. Of course, this is how her father would die: murdered by a jealous husband. What a fitting way to end his life. Phryne thought of all the murders she’d seen in the name of love over the years: all of the dead husbands, wives, and lovers. For a moment, her youthful cynicism about marriage felt justified.

But it was so satisfying to be tracking down a suspect with Jack once again, as they split up at the Fielding house. She burst in the front door and confronted a panicked Mr. Fielding, keeping him distracted while Jack snuck in from the back entrance. They made eye contact, she gave a brief nod, and Jack tackled him down the ground with a gleam in his eye. She had missed this so much.

Later, she listened as Mr. Fielding gave a full, weeping confession to Hugh. Her father’s death had been just as sordid as his life: poisoned alone by a jealous husband. How was she going to tell her mother?

* * *

Afterwards, she joined Jack in his office, mulling over the end of her father’s life. “Well, that’s the end of my parent’s great love story. Forty years together, and he’s murdered by another woman’s husband.”

Jack looked thoughtfully at his tea, “He still loved your mother, you know. Through the end, through all the mess.”

Phryne tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice, “And a marriage is still a marriage, Inspector?”

Jack’s voice was deep and careful as he responded, “Marriage is whatever you want it to be, Miss Fisher” and his eyes calmly met hers.

* * *

Phryne was lost in thought as she drove back to Prudence’s: did she want to end up like her father? Dying alone, surrounded by jealousy and hurt?

Had she just repeated her father's mistakes in his marriage in her own with Jack? Running when things became difficult?

And what now? Go back home to London again? She missed her Melbourne family so much: long nights with Mac, and afternoons with Dot, and Bert, Cec, Aunt P (who was there for her in London? Guy?). She missed having an active profession.

And she could only stay in Melbourne and get that life back, if she had Jack at her side: as her partner, her companion, her right-hand man.

Dammit. She wanted him back. She wanted her happy Melbourne life back. She wanted what her father had wasted — a second chance.

* * *

That night, Phryne found herself knocking on the door to Jack’s bungalow, clutching a bottle of whisky. Jack answered the door in shirtsleeves, and Phryne quickly inhaled at the sight of him in his waistcoat. 

She leaned against the doorway and held out the bottle to him, “Is it too late?”

He smiled and shook his head, “Never,” and opened the door to let her in.

Phryne was here, looking at him with a soft, shy smile. Jack swallowed.

He took the bottle from her. “Fancy,” he noted.

Phryne was pacing in little circles by the fire. “Er, yes, Mac gave it to me — she said it came with her regards?”

Jack smiled at the peace-offering from Mac. He’d return the favour later. He offered Phryne a drink, “P, sit. Relax.”

She sat, and raised her glass to him in a hesitating toast. “To second chances?”

Jack smirked a bit, and then responded softly, “and to miracles.” His Phryne had come home.

They toasted, and talked until the bottle was empty, and the fire was cold.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try a fic that reversed the usual Phrack relationship compromise; trying for marriage/no-monogamy instead of monogamy without marriage. This is the result.


End file.
